Of Bad Faith
by fictionwelive07
Summary: When a vigilante group starts attacking families with ties to Voldemort, the Malfoys become a prime target. But no one cares what happens to Death Eater scum, so Draco is forced to turn to the last person on earth he wants help from. Slash.


Disclaimer: I am not JKR, and don't own the rights to Harry Potter. If I did, I'd be bathing in a tub of gold, and not writing fanfiction on the internet.

This story contains adult situations, language, violence and slash. That's gay, man on man love by the way. If that sort of thing offends you, I don't really want you reading anything I write anyway, so goodbye and see you later then.

I realize this chapter is rather short, but if anyone shows interest, I promise to make my chapters meatier from here on out.

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After the war, there was great joy and celebration; not just in the United Kingdom, but throughout the entire wizarding world. From Cairo, Egypt to Tokyo, Japan witches and wizards joined hands and cried out Harry Potter's name. Darkness had been lifted from the world, and for the first time in a great while, people allowed themselves to be hopeful. Hogwarts opened its doors back up to students, both pure-blooded and muggle-born alike, with Minerva McGonagall presiding over the school as Headmistress. Stores re-opened in Diagon Alley, and its once dead end streets filled with the hustle and bustle of shoppers. Kingsley Shacklebolt, a renowned Auror and hero of the war, was voted Minister of Magic. He fought alongside Hermione Granger to abolish anti-muggle-born laws, wiped out corrupt members of the Ministry, and established equal rights for all citizens. The Daily Prophet's pages hailed this period of peace and prosperity as 'The Golden Age.' And life was certainly golden for everyone.

Well,_ almost _everyone.

Draco Malfoy made his way through the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. A visitor's badge was pinned to his chest, although his father found him a job with the Ministry several months prior. A dim-witted Hufflepuff first year could have done the insultingly simple work; filing papers, sending memos, registering meetings for higher-ups, serving tea. One day of work – his last day, actually – he'd been pouring tea to a lackey in the Portkey Office, who snickered loudly and said, "Oh,_ look _how the mighty Malfoy's have fallen." Rather than hand him the cup he poured, Draco flung the scalding hot liquid in the man's face, calmly gathered his belongings, and stormed out of Ministry headquarters without saying a word. Draco hadn't been able to find a job since, minus dabbling in the black market now and again when he was desperate for extra cash.

The Malfoy's hadn't fallen. They were kicked in the dirt, left to die and – above all – forgotten. Or so Draco thought. Someone apparently hadn't forgotten them. Someone still held onto a grudge, nursed old wounds. And that's why Draco was here.

Two days ago, he jolted awake at the sound of his mother screaming. A fire raged throughout their Manor house, a house that had been built before the founding of Hogwarts, and burned everything in sight. Precious family heirlooms crumbled, dust and decay filled the air, and Draco watched as landmarks of his childhood – his life – vanished before his eyes. His father was badly wounded, but Draco and his parents managed to escape and seek shelter. Lucius now sat in a hospital bed in St. Mungo's, Narcissa beside him, hiding her anger and fear behind pursed lips and icy blue eyes.

For weeks, _The Daily Prophet _reported attacks on the families of former Death Eater's. The reaction to these attacks by the public was a mix of satisfaction and indifference; some people thought that the parties responsible for the attacks were heroes, out to finally seek vigilante justice for those whose lives had been lost or ruined by the Death Eater's. Mostly, the attacks were received with indifference; who cared what happened to a bunch of old washed-up Death Eater's and their families? They were nothing now, the lowest spectrum of wizarding society. Dirt.

It was only a matter of time before the Malfoy's were targeted. A lot of things could be said about Draco Malfoy, many of them negative, most of them true. But he was loyal to people he cared about, especially his parents, and he refused to let anyone ruin what little lives they had left. He reported the fire to the Ministry, and a few Aurors came to ask questions and investigate what remained of Malfoy Manor. They fed Draco empty promises, avoided his questions and disappeared as quickly as possible.

He knew that if there was any hope of protecting his family, any hope at all, something had to be done now, and he had to do that something himself. But he couldn't do it alone. There was only one other person he could rely on for help, as much as it pained him to admit so.

With the confidence born and bred into Malfoy blood for generations, Draco waltzed up to the reception desk in the Atrium. An unpleasant looking middle-aged witch with horn-rimmed glasses and beehive hair sat behind the desk, casually flipping through a _Witch Weekly _magazine.

Draco announced his presence by clearing his throat. "I need to see Harry Potter."

The secretary looked up from her magazine in disbelief, and laughed right in his face. "So does everyone and their mother, these days. What makes you so special?"

"I'm not going to discuss the particularities of my visit with you," Draco said coldly. "It's an urgent matter, and I need to see him right away."

The secretary gave him a scowl that would've impressed even his father. "As I'm sure you can imagine, Harry Potter is an_ extremely _busy man. If you want to see him, you need to schedule an appointment, and will most likely be put on a waiting list that could take weeks, months even."

Draco didn't budge. "Send a note up to the Auror's Office. Tell him an old school mate – an old.. friend – is here and needs to see him immediately." The word 'friend' felt funny, and Draco even had a difficult time choking it out, but he didn't think informing her he was once Harry Potter's most hated rival other than Lord Voldemort himself would make his case any more convincing.

Because it was evident he wouldn't give up, the secretary sighed, relenting a little. "What's your name?"

"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

The woman lifted her eyebrows with surprise at the name 'Malfoy' and scribbled something onto a note. The note folded itself into a paper airplane and zoomed toward the nearby lift, hopefully headed toward the Auror Offices like Draco requested. "All right, I don't see how it'll possibly do any good, but I sent him a note. Now go sit down and wait. But don't be expecting him."

"I appreciate your vote of confidence," Draco said sarcastically. "I really think you missed your calling as an inspirational speaker." He left the poor secretary dumbfounded behind her desk, and sat at a small circle of chairs that had a coffee table splayed with newspapers and magazines on the surface. He picked up a copy of _The Daily Prophet_, and waited – either for security to escort him out of the premises, a representative from the Auror Office sent in Harry's place or – Merlin forbid – Harry-bloody-Golden-Boy-Potter himself. He waited for something, anything to happen, because all he could do right now was wait.


End file.
